


near or far, I am always yours

by ellispage21



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:51:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: 'On the far side of the room, he saw red once more. But this was not the red that was now soaking into his shoes, not the red that was coating Joly’s white shirt, not the red of death. This was the red of revolution, the red of pain, a pain so sharp that you can’t breathe, the red of power and anger and change and Enjolras.'in which Grantaire is too late.





	near or far, I am always yours

Something was wrong. As he opened his eyes, still heavy from the day spent consuming his body weight in wine, Grantaire could feel it. Everything was dark, and silent, and wrong. There was an unmistakable static in the air, as though there had been a noise, a loud one just moments ago, but the drumming of his heart was the only noise in the room. He tried to place himself, the Musain, he was quite sure, and yet there was still something wrong. He raked a dry hand through his tangled hair, cursing himself for drinking so much. _Enjolras will be angry,_ he thought, standing to adjust his shirt, a feeble attempt at good presentation, _to him, I am nothing but a drunk._

The churning in his stomach continued as he remembered the events of the previous day. Enjolras, a vision in red, rallying the people in a way only he could, his rich voice echoing across the courtyard. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the dream duo as they were so often nicknamed, catching falling chairs, tables, anything they could get their hands on. _“My barricade boys,”_ Enjolras had called them as they gathered for the night. Grantaire’s heart had skipped at the mere thought of belonging to Enjolras, even though he had been completely and unequivocally his since they had met. He shook the thought from his head as he heard footsteps above him. There was a voice, the one that belonged to the golden boy, but there was another voice, too. One with gravel, and disgust, and anger. _Javert?_ No, he had been killed, Valjean assured them all. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he didn’t need to: the voices were cut off by a volley. Grantaire froze. His thoughts began to race, _the boys, the barricade, had it fallen? Marius, Valjean, had he betrayed us? Joly, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras._

Grantaire managed, with great difficulty, to steady his shaking hands and open the door into the main Café. His eyes scanned the scene, surprised to find only dust, and ripped up floorboards. This was nothing new, the weight of rebellion had taken hold of Enjolras many times as he marched about the room upstairs, the floor groaning under the strain of his ideas and his beliefs and his desperation for a new world, a France that would be stronger for them all. Many times, they had fallen out of the door at dawn, drunk on friendship and revolution, to find the owners covered in dust and frowning. Enjolras had apologised and smiled, the same smile that could bring kingdoms to their knees, it was always forgotten. Grantaire did not forget, could not forget that smile. The times it was directed at him, when he had contributed to a discussion, when he had made a joke, the feeling of that smile against his own.  


_It was one time. They were drunk and his lips tasted like tequila, and there was a lightning storm in Grantaire’s mouth. The best kiss of his life. They never talked about it, not even sure that he remembered it. It was one time, not worth mentioning._

_Two times, once when drunk on tequila, once when drunk on pure adrenaline. His mouth tastes like vanilla, his fingers wound into Grantaire’s hair, there are lightning strikes hidden in his feather-light touches. He is unaware of his power._

_Three times, a pattern. Grantaire was used to the taste, vanilla, determination, and recklessness, but still so taken aback. He discovers the sharp of Enjolras’ teeth, the noises he is capable of making. He is definitely unaware of his power, and yet he still manages to abuse it. Grantaire still doesn’t know where he hides the lightning._

His thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of soldiers hurrying past, they had not seen him. They leave, the smell of gunpowder causing his nose to wrinkle, and it is as though he doesn’t register who they were. Gunpowder. Soldiers. His brain works tirelessly trying to connect the two, and in a horrific second they do. _Enjolras._

The stairs were partially destroyed, jagged pieces of wood biting into his legs as he fell against them in his haste, forcing him to climb on his hands and knees. He peered through the gaps in the banister, but his vision was mainly blocked by an overturned table. Forcing himself to stand, Grantaire saw red, the blood and bodies of his comrades, his best friends, his brothers. Combeferre, Joly, Courfeyrac, _where is Enjolras?_ A wave of sick relief washed over him, _Enjolras was alive. He was alive and he was scheming, forming a new plan. They would overthrow the monarchy, just the two of them, Enjolras had always been a king._ He tore his gaze away from his friends, peppered with bullet holes, and feels like he has been shot himself. Run through with a bayonet, hit by a cannonball square in the chest. On the far side of the room, he saw red once more. But this was not the red that was now soaking into his shoes, not the red that was coating Joly’s white shirt, not the red of death. This was the red of revolution, the red of pain, a pain so sharp that you can’t breathe, the red of power and anger and change and _Enjolras._ This is the red of the flag that Enjolras tied around his waist during late night meetings at the Musain, the flag that he had waved so fearlessly at General Lamarque’s funeral procession, the flag that he had carried into the valley of Death, into the mouth of Hell, into the barricade.

He isn’t sure how, but somehow Grantaire stumbled blindly to the window, where he reaches out a trembling hand to take Enjolras’ in his own. He was still warm. He was shaking violently, holding onto the gnarled window frame with white knuckles. He could see the crimson now, the blood pooling around Enjolras’ collarbones. _Nobody can survive 8 shots to the chest,_ he tells himself, _not even Enjolras._ With a quick inhale, he pulled Enjolras up by his lapel, hearing a nauseating crunch as his spine connected with the frame. _“I’m sorry,”_ he whispers, and with one final tug, Enjolras falls into his arms. In this light, with the sun shining down on them, his blond hair looked like a halo, and the thought is overwhelming. Grantaire began to sob, his sorrow wracking his body as he curled over Enjolras, unable to breathe. _“Mon Enj,”_ he croaked, brushing away the dirt from Enjolras’ face, staring into the eyes that were once brimming with hope and passion, but were now blown and empty and so, so blue. The red jacket, infamous and tied only to his name was smeared with blood, flung open to reveal a once-starched shirt, tainted forever with the colour of rebellion. All he had wanted was to live and to die by Enjolras’ side, and he was too late. He was too late, and Enjolras had pulled his boys up the stairs to safety and they were dead, he was dead and he was too late. He was too late, and Enjolras had faced the firing squad, the soldiers snarling with hatred, he had faced them alone and he was too late. He was too late, and he had been alone, red flag high in the air as 8 bullets had pierced his chest, the chest that was full of love for his Patria, for a new dawn. He was too late. He would never get to tell him the power that he had, he would never find out where he hid the lightning. He would never kiss him sober.  


He chokes out another strangled attempt at Enjolras’ name, butchering the pronunciation the way Enjolras had been butchered mere minutes before. Grantaire could have done nothing to stop them, the soldiers, they were hell-bent on destruction, on ending their plans. But he could have been there. He could have stood in front of Enjolras, he could have taken 8 bullets, he could have reassured him, he could have told him how desperately in love he was, he could have taken his hand, he could have held on tightly and he could have given Enjolras’ just a glimmer of hope when hope was surely lost. He could have, he could have, but he didn’t. The thought made him wretch, and he looked down once more at the love of his life. He noticed that his hands were covered in blood and he isn’t sure if it’s Enjolras’ or if he has been cut open and had his heart ripped out of him, because that was sure as hell what it felt like. He held him close, closer than Enjolras’ would have permitted in life, he would have rolled his eyes, muttering something about getting back to the task at hand, _the rebellion, remember, Grantaire? We are going to change the world, you and I._

With one hand under his neck, Grantaire gently stroked the curls now damp with blood away from Enjolras’ face, noting how even in death he resembled a god. With a voice as cracked as broken glass, he whispers, _“it wasn’t Icarus that flew too close to the sun this time, Apollo.”_ The pain within him was indescribable, he was feeling nothing and yet he felt everything. He remembered every time he had mocked his leader, every _sure, Apollo_ , every half-hearted cheer, every glare Enjolras’ had shot at him, and here he was, shot for a country that hadn’t stood by him. He shifted slightly, leaning down to whisper into Enjolras’ ear, _“I burned for so long, and so quietly by your side, you must have known, Enj, that I loved you. I did, I did, I do.”_ He sunk into another wave of nausea as the reality of the situation hit him, he was alone. _“Enj,”_ he tried once more, _“it is important that you know this, it is important to me.”_ With a gasping, uncertain breath, he continued, _“I have never loved myself, but you, oh God, I loved you so much that I forgot what hating myself felt like.”_ He bent his head to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder, and was suddenly startled out of his haze.  


Against his better judgement, Grantaire released Enjolras, letting him drop to the floor with a sickening thud. He remembered, somewhere in the back of his mind, Joly had told him about revival. _“You push quite firmly on their chest, are you listening, Grantaire? You push until help comes.”_ A part of him knew the effort was futile, but he was struck down with grief. He balled up his fists and began to pound on Enjolras’ chest, each hit causing blood to spit wildly onto his clothes, his face, his hair. _“Enjolras, please,”_ he begged, _“come back, please come back to me.”_ He could see that the floor surrounding them was a deep red, as the floorboards began to absorb the blood. He was reminded of his studio, all the paintings of Enjolras littering the walls, the whole room was red, red, red and he looks at his hands and they’re red and his sleeves are red and Enjolras is red, red, red, gone. He paused, realising with horror that he had been hitting him, quickly cradling him again. _“I’m sorry, Enj,”_ he repeats to nobody, _“I’m sorry I didn’t save you.”_ The world was unfair and this was unfair, and Enjolras only wanted to change it for the better, and Grantaire would have cursed God had he believed in one but he didn’t because all he believed in was Enjolras and he was gone, gone, gone. The tears were streaming again now, rolling down his blood-stained cheeks and dropping onto Enjolras’ face, as though it would rouse him as it did in the fairy-tales that Grantaire had read Gavroche. He pulled Enjolras’ shirt to one side, he wanted to see where they had hurt him. He wanted to hurt himself in exactly the same places, maybe if he felt the same pain, somehow it would get better. There were 3 or 4 in his abdomen, 2 in his ribcage, Grantaire had never been good at biology, but he knew that the one he was staring at, the one that had killed him, had gone straight through his heart. He groaned, the noise was akin to that of an animal baited into a trap, maimed, and dying, but not yet dead.  


Hours had passed, it was dusk and the villagers were starting to stir, he could hear them in the street, discussing the breach of the barricade. He had fallen asleep, he was certain, and now Enjolras was cold and he was becoming hysterical. Grantaire’s arms had lost feeling, strained under Enjolras’ body. _“Oh,”_ he whimpered, _“oh, Enjolras, you’re bleeding, you’re bleeding so much.”_ He brought up one shaking hand to stroke Enjolras’ sharp face, the blood he had inadvertently streaked onto his soft cheek looked like molten gold, and he thinks how fitting it is that his angel is adorned with the colours of Heaven. He pulled Enjolras to his chest again, _“you know, we are both covered in your blood,”_ he says, aware that he can’t hear him, _“but I would have bled every drop of blood that I have in my body onto the floor if you had asked me to.”_ The weight of Enjolras laying on his legs was almost as though he was simply asleep, and if Grantaire closed his eyes tight enough, he could overcome the torrid stench of blood and gunpowder and _death_ , and it was like he had imagined on nights where even a bottle of whiskey couldn’t give him the relief he so desperately needed, Enjolras, his golden boy, his Apollo, worn out from a day of rallies, curled up in his lap and sleeping peacefully. But that wasn’t true, that wasn’t real. Enjolras was dead, his friends were dead, the rebellion was over, the people hadn’t come as Enjolras so fervently believed they would and Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras, and pain and death and bullets and guns and smoke and pain and red and blood and _Enjolras._

It takes an army of no less than 6 men to tear Grantaire away from Enjolras, and still he did not go without a fight, kicking, screaming, and thrashing. _“What do you have to say for yourself?”_ one officer asks, hauling Grantaire up by his shirt, _“why are you here?”_. Grantaire’s vision was blurring as he staggered into the street, _“vive la République!”_ he spat, lunging forward, stopped by another soldier. The two men sent each other knowing looks, and nodded gravely. One drew his gun with trembling hands and cocked it. Grantaire closed his eyes, the barrel of the pistol rattling an inch from his forehead. _“May you find peace in the next life, God knows you couldn’t find it here.”_ The officer murmured, and Grantaire’s eyes opened, he smiled. The officer hesitated, shooting a cautious glance at his colleague, who also appeared confused. Grantaire’s expression was full of love and adoration, looking not at the officer in front of him or the gun, but at the empty air beside him.  
_Enjolras held Grantaire’s hand tightly, eyes full of a softness that he reserved only for those he was proud of. This warm gaze was directed at him, at Grantaire, at the man who was too late, and he knew he had been forgiven. He smiled back at Enjolras, tears pricking at his eyelids. “Come with me,” Enjolras said, “it’s time for you to come home.”_

No-one heard the last gunshot at the fallen barricade.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.  
> there are references to other pieces throughout this text, I can no longer source them, however.  
> if you spot something, message me and I will rectify it.


End file.
